Hotel Arman

“Data is the new oil.”

Clive Humby

I wake in a room. Slivers of sunlight fight to pass through the material of the curtains that try to hide away the plate-glass window, bathing the chamber in a bath of beige. I glance over to my left. There is a bedside table there, generic wood and Bakelite. Incorporated in the façade is an alarm clock. 07:04. Early.

But where am I?

Yes, where am I?

I didn’t go to sleep in this room.

Where did I go to sleep?

The fog in my head fails to clear. I cannot see where I was, only where I am. And where I am is not where I expected to be, even if I can’t say where my expectations lay.

I sit up, the intrepid explorer of this new room.

The curtains are beige, and the walls are beige. There is a wardrobe in the corner, and a kettle with two upturned clean cups. The carpet is brown, a darker version of the beige of the walls.

It is a hotel room. A generic, bland stabling point for a single night on life’s journey. I get up and go to the window, drawing open the beige curtains that only partly do their job. Behind them are thin nets. I pull one back and gaze out.

What I see is not what I expected, although, again, I do not know what my expectations were precisely. A street perhaps, or a panorama over a vast city. Or maybe a beautiful Alpine scene with snow-capped mountains and forested slopes.

What I actually see is a flat plain, a vast steppe like those in the Şöl Region, stretching out in all directions, featureless and dull, broken only by scrubby vegetation. Above the horizon where land and sky meld together are a smattering of fluffy clouds amidst an ocean of blue.

Where am I?

The empty, desolate vista reminds me of the time, years ago, when I took a trip to Sumdıq Qala, the capital of Şöl. Riding in the train across mile after mile of wilderness like the one before me. Am I in Şöl then? But why?

I go to the bathroom which is en suite and use the facilities. I clean my teeth and shower and then, freshened, I return to the room and look in the wardrobe. Several sets of my clothes are hanging there. I take out underwear, a shirt and a pair of trousers and get dressed. I put on my socks and then slip my feet into the shoes waiting by the bed. Then I stride out of the room towards breakfast, remembering to take the keys with me and make a note of the room number as I depart.

I leave my room and enter the corridor, carpeted with a putrid designed of mauve and chocolate swirls. The lift is summoned by a round button and, when I step inside, I find that there were twelve floors to choose from. I select G.

The reception desk is manned by a smiling lady of Chinese or Korean heritage, clad in a blouse and cream waistcoat, her hair tied back in a simple ponytail, some stray strands held in place by a clip in the shape of a butterfly. Her nametag reads ‘Tatyana Tsoi’. She smiles when she sees me and says, “Hello sir, how may I help you?”

No trace of an accent.

“Ah, yes, hello. I was wondering, strange as this may sound, where am I exactly?”

The smile remains on her face with no hint of annoyance, confusion or amusement. Indeed, it seems as if a guest requesting to know where he is, is the most natural question imaginable. “You are in the Hotel Arman, Mr. Kushdo, as the sign indicates.”

She pointed up to the words above the desk and I felt extremely stupid. Even so, knowing the name of the place – which was generic enough – wasn’t exactly very helpful. Ok, so this was the Hotel Arman, but what was I doing there? I asked her as much and, again, he face betrayed no confusion or surprise.

“You checked in last night, Mr. Kushdo, rather late. I trust the room is to your satisfaction, for if there is a problem then…”

“No, no, the room is quite sufficient, thank you very much. No, I mean to ask, why did I check in here last night?”

She smiled that noncommittal smile. “I cannot say why individual guests are motivated to come and stay with us; I only endeavour to make the stay a happy one. Which is why I’m glad that you’ve come down to see me, because there were lots of things that I did not have a chance to talk to you about last night when you checked in. Your stay is full-board and so you need to know that breakfast is served between seven and ten, lunch between twelve and two, and evening meal between five and eight, although you can, of course, have meals brought to your room instead for no extra cost.”

“What time is it now?”

She pointed upwards to the gold-plated clock situated beneath the words HOTEL and ARMAN. It read twenty-five to nine.

“Is that AM?”

“Yes, Mr. Kushdo, so breakfast is still available. Go up one floor and then turn to your left.”

“I’m sorry, I seem to be very disorientated. My questions must seem stupid and…”

“Not at all, sir,” she replied with a look of reassurance. “We get similar queries from many of our guests.”

“Ah, ok, erm… good… And… to do, is there much? I mean, outside and that…?”

“You are welcome to go outside of course, although there is not much there. We are hardly in one of the busiest or more scenic parts of the country. However, within the hotel itself, we have ample entertainment with special events for guests every evening in the lounge area. Again, go up one floor, but this time, turn right. Tonight, is a cabaret I believe, and tomorrow there is a quiz.”

I went up a floor, taking the stairs this time, rather than the lift. These were wide, made of reconstituted stone, with a maroon carpet running down the centre held in place by brass stair rods. At the corners where the staircase turned 180° on either side before then proceeding upwards again, there was a large potted palm in a terracotta vase.

Breakfast was a buffet, a reasonable selection of pastries, juices, fruit, spreads, and yoghurt, along with some cooked meats and cheeses. I filled myself up whilst sitting on a solitary table by a window gazing out into the beyond. There were only three other diners. Wherever this Hotel Arman might be, it was hardly full to bursting. As I munched away and then washed it down with fresh coffee served to me by another Korean-looking staff member, this time with ‘Viktoriya Kim’ on her badge. She’s quite cute in a low-key way. I wondered what I was doing here. Why would I have checked myself into a hotel in the middle of nowhere, what looked like the steppe? I mean, it seemed a pleasant enough, albeit rather generic sort of place, but why? I’m not really a nature-lover and, besides, even if I were, I’d have picked the mountains or coast. But here? There was nothing! Indeed, why even build a hotel – a whacking great twelve-storey hotel! – in such a place.

As I drained the last dregs of the coffee and dabbed my mouth, I vowed to solve the mystery.

Beyond the front entrance of the hotel was a paved area for cars or coaches, but there were no vehicles to be seen. This had an entrance and exit and operated in a sort of one-way system. These two then joined into a single-carriageway road which headed out, at right angles from the hotel, off into the distance. Although there was no pavement, I decided to walk a little along this road. All around, on every side, flat steppe stretched out, with only light scrub on the surface, almost a desert. The sky above was now grey and cloudy. It was not uplifting. After I had walked some distance, I turned and looked back at the Hotel Arman. There it stood, a vast concrete monolith in the middle of nowhere, unconnected to the world save for the road that I was now standing on. The horizon on every side was nondescript and perfectly horizontal. Yes, I thought to myself, this has to be the Şöl Region. However, even that learning did not help me. It did not explain why I was there. I considered walking further, but realised that I would learn no more, so I returned to the hotel, but instead of going straight to the entrance, I decided to circumambulate it. The back was almost identical to the front, save for the lack of a grand entrance and, by the service door, several large bins. Standing in the doorway was Viktoriya Kim from the bar smoking a cigarette. She smiled and waved at me, and I waved back, before continuing round to the front, heading inside and up to my room.

There was a film showing on the TV when I switched it on. It was titled ‘Flower in Snow’ and had only just started so, for want of anything better to do, I settled down to watch it. Actually, it wasn’t bad. I hadn’t seen it before. It was a tragic romance. The hero, a boy from Dağlıq Bölgə, fell in love with a girl that he met at university. She had long dark hair, eyes of deep brown, and a manner of intoxicating elegance. I found her to be one of the most beautiful girls I had ever set eyes upon and was surprised that I hadn’t come across the actress before. The two were madly in love but there was a problem: her family had arranged for her to be married to someone else from their religion and she was too scared to refuse. Then, to make things worse, that evening, at a party, his father introduced him to the girl that he would be marrying. She was extremely pretty and lovely too but, since she was blonde with blue eyes and I have always preferred brunettes, then I thought he would be best staying with his original choice. I found the father most objectional, really overbearing in his manner and not that bright whilst the mother, whom the hero confided to about her real feelings was pathetic and passive, never daring to challenge her husband. I’d expected the whole think to end in an elopement or perhaps even a heart-rending double suicide a la Romeo and Juliet, but no, to my surprise, things concluded most differently. The two lovers met in secret and, tears streaming down their cheeks, concluded that loyalty to the family and obedience to parents was more important than anything else and so, had shared one final embrace before parting forever, the credits rolling with her walking away from him as the rain lashed down. Most dissatisfied with it all, I turned off the TV in disgust, glanced outside to notice that it was raining there too, and so went downstairs in search of some different diversions. Hadn’t the girl on reception said there was a cabaret tonight?

There were not many people in the bar, an expansive place that could hold hundreds. I ordered a beer from another Korean-looking girl (this one named Tsvetlana Park, and she was pretty as a flower too) and nursed it on a table by the window, watching the torrents lash down and wondering why the boy in the film had chosen such a stupid path in life. Once that had finished, I started musing as to why they only seemed to employ members of the Korean minority here at the Hotel Arman. My guess is that it is because they are so hard-working and never seem to be obstinate. I admire that about the Orientals, but they can be inscrutable, so hard to get to know. Still, the local nomads in the Şöl Region are so lazy and uneducated – and infected by the same tribalism that had ruined the life of the boy in the film – that it was unsurprising the owners had steered clear of them. This train of thought got me into thinking about other ethnic groups in the country: the Indians and the Arabs; the Whites and the Africans.

“Excuse me, is that seat free?”

I was shaken from my musings by a voice. I looked up to see a pretty girl with long dark hair and brown eyes. Indeed, she reminded me a lot of the one in the film who had walked off in the rain, although this real-life specimen was slightly older, more my own age.

I looked around. The bar was still virtually empty and so her intentions were clear. Nothing wrong with that though and, besides, some company, especially pretty company, would be welcome.

“Of course, please. Don’t fancy drinking alone?”

She smiled. “Not really. I hope you don’t think I’m too forward, but I’ve had no one to talk to all day.”

“Not at all. I like a girl who knows her own mind and is not passive.” As I spoke, I thought of the mother in the film and the pathetic heroine who this girl reminded me of.

“Oh, that’s good, because my parents and ex-husband always said that I was too independent. Natasha by the way, and you?”

She proffered her hand, and I took it, thinking that she looked rather young to have an ex. “Dmitri,” I replied. Her hand felt smooth and warm, and I felt my desire rising.

We talked. At first about the hotel – she had been staying for a week, something to do with her job – and then more personal things. I asked about her ex, and she admitted that it had been an awful mistake. “We met at university and fell hopelessly in love. Our families objected, different religions and, besides, my dad had someone else lined up for me, and his dad too, but we simply said, ‘Screw that!’ and married in a registry office. Almost immediately though, it started to go wrong. He was not the man I thought before we married. He tried to control me and restrict me and so I just thought, ‘Fuck you!’ and, one morning, after a nasty row, told him I was going out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back.

She then lit a cigarette, offered me one, and blew blue clouds of smoke into the air.

Hearing a woman swear so openly jarred a little with me, as too did the idea of a girl smoking. I’m not being sexist here, please understand me, I just don’t like swearing full-stop and cigarette smoke always gives me a headache. What most amazed about it all though was that this girl, who could have been the elder sister of the one in the film, seemed to be the exact mirror of the passive damsel in character.

“You remind me of someone,” I said.

“Who?” asked Natasha.

“A girl off a film I just watched. She looks like you but is totally different in character.”

“What’s the name of the film?”

“‘Flower in Snow ’.”

“Oh, I saw that years ago. Yes, she does look a bit like me I suppose, although I’m prettier of course.” She smiled as she said this, so I wasn’t sure how serious she was being. Still, she was pretty, and the alcohol was only accentuating this. “She was in ‘On the Green Carpet’ and ‘Our Fragrance’ too.”

“I haven’t seen them.”

“You don’t want to. Awful. She only seems to be given the roles of pathetic damsels in distress, some passive doll who can’t stand up for herself. Not like me. But tell me, Dmitri, which kind of woman do you prefer: active or passive?” Her eyes bored into me with a power and dominance that would brook no refusal.

“Active, of course,” I replied, not entirely sure that I did.

“Very good,” she said, her hand brushing against mine, sending shivers up my spine.

After another drink, we went up to her room. It was identical to mine in every respect.

I woke up with a headache, the lingering odour of cigarette smoke in the air. I looked to my right. Natasha was asleep, her body turned away from me towards the window. One breast was exposed and as I watched it rise and fall, I recalled the night before. As I did, I shuddered. There is one thing to be an active participant in life, but she had been far more than just that. As soon as they had entered the bedroom, she had transformed herself from temptress into dictator. Some people might have found the experience exciting or erotic, from me it had been closer to traumatic. She stirred and I thought through the consequences. Did I really want to be lying next to her when she awoke, to be obeying her orders as she rapped them out in-between drags on her cigarette?

As noiselessly as I could, I gathered up my clothes and made my way out of the room.

Back in my own room, I put the TV on. It was the news, and the Leader was giving a speech on industrial production. I switched it off. Although I would never admit it in public, I have no time for the Leader. He only got his exalted position through the connections of his father, and he had lurched from one kneejerk policy to the next during his time in office. This latest sticking plaster for the failing metals and motor manufacturing industries was no different. Certainly not what I needed first thing in the morning.

I turned it off and glanced at the clock. 07:36. I went down to breakfast.

Thankfully, Natasha was not down there, so I ate alone, again served by Viktoriya who I was beginning to find really cute. She smiled as she placed the coffee in front of me and I smiled back. ‘I bet she’s no monster in private,’ I mused to myself as I gazed across the endless steppe beyond the plate glass. I imagined Viktoriya Kim as my wife, a hard-working little Korean girl, always smiling and offering support when you needed it. Neither a pathetic passive damsel in distress nor a fiery femme fatale such as the one I had encountered the night before. It was a pleasing image.

After breakfast I went outside for a short walk to clear my head, greeting Tatyana Tsoi on the front desk as I did. She had no news for me about my departure, and I was about to move on when I stopped, turned on my heel, and said, “Oh yes, and if the lady in Room 227 should enquire after me, could you inform her that I am unavailable?”

“Certainly, sir,” she replied, as inscrutable as all Koreans are.

My walk was uneventful, merely a brief stroll out into the wilderness, but it cleared my head of the fug of her cigarette smoke and made me feel a whole lot better. When I returned, I went straight to my room fearful of any chance encounters in the public spaces with Natasha… why, I never even asked her surname!

There was another film starting when I turned on the TV so, with no better diversion, I sat down to watch it. This one was another that I had not seen before and was called ‘Sisters’. It was a serious drama all about two Korean girls who grew up with an overworked but loving mother and cold domineering father. Their background was not rich, and they had to struggle for everything that they wanted but, drawing on the love of each other and their closely-knit family, they transcended all odds, with one becoming a doctor and the other starting up a business. They married nice but rather dull men who loved them dutifully and filled their lives with kids, parents, cousins, aunts, uncles and, above all, each other. In the end, their close devotion and constant service to the family softened even their father’s cold heart and in the supposedly-touching final scene, he tearfully repented of his former attitude, and regretted all the happy hours that they could have spent together if only he had opened his heart more. The film closed with him bouncing two young granddaughters, the first the daughter of one sister, the second of the other, the wheel having turned full circle whilst string music played, and the sun shone in through the window.

It was awful. Absolutely bloody terrible. Not the acting, nor even the cinematography, but the script, the concept, the whole idea behind it. Now, I’m not knocking those who are really into family, who love to have their brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins around for parties and other get-togethers. Who profess that family comes first and that blood is thicker than water. If that’s your thing, then fine, but it’s not mine. Family is not everything, despite what the makers of ‘Sisters’ might think. Understanding yourself, following your own path, forging relationships with those whom you choose as opposed to those chosen for you, such is what makes life worth living. Once again, I had finished a film disappointed and understood why I had never come across it before.

When I went downstairs that evening, I asked Tatyana on the front desk if the lady in Room 227 had asked after me.

“Mrs. Xatakar checked out of the hotel late this morning, Mr. Kushdo,” she informed me neutrally.

It was as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders and I left the lobby whistling a tune.

I decided to go down to the bar for a drink. Who knows, I might even get lucky again although, memories of the voracious Natasha Xatakar flooding into my mind, I checked those thoughts, wondering if I wanted to endure such an experience again.

As it happened, I need not have worried. The bar was much fuller this time, but everyone there was male. Everyone, that is, apart from the Korean girl behind the bar.

“I thought you only did breakfasts,” I said to Viktoriya Kim as I settled down on a stool.

“I normally do, but Tsveta isn’t well so I’m filling in,” she replied with a smile. I felt a tingle of desire pass through my body like an electric current. Was I falling for a Korean waitress-cum-bargirl? Perhaps I was. Ms. Kim was a total cutie and I’ve always had a thing for Oriental girls. I ordered a beer off her and told her to get one for herself which earned me another smile.

I had not been sitting there for many minutes, when a man joined me. He introduced himself as Arakeç and he was a native of the Şöl Region and was staying in the Hotel Arman on business. I wondered what line of business might cause a man to end up in such an isolated spot, but he did not seem willing to talk about it, which was understandable. After all, we spend our entire day at work, so we don’t really want it to dominate the evening as well.

Arakeç was an aficionado of football and so we fell into talking about the National League and the cup prospects of various teams. It was meaningless but enjoyable chatter, particularly since our views aligned. I feel uncomfortable when at odds with someone all the time, but when you are with someone who agrees with you, things are far pleasanter. We knocked back a few beers, falling into the habit of buying rounds for one another, and were later joined by two more men, an Indian named Bhēḍa and a European called Andrei. They were all fine company, and the conversation moved on from the beautiful game to the beautiful lady behind the bar. I was interested to learn that I was not the only man who had noticed Ms. Kim’s charms, and Bhēḍa launched into a long tirade about how Korean women are the best because they are submissive, hard-working and loyal.

At these words though, Andrei, who I guessed was perhaps in his fifties, took unction, replying that it was all merely an illusion, an act put on for us males. “Korean women are the same as French, German, Şöli and even Indian women. They are women and all women are not to be trusted. They look beautiful and promise the earth, but none of it is real; it is all merely an illusion. Trust me, I should know; I have been married twice and have had numerous mistresses and they are all the same. The one I have waiting for me back in Bucharest is no different.”

Perhaps I shouldn’t since he was older than me, but the alcohol had loosened my tongue and I was curious. “But if you have learned that lesson which you sound so certain about,” I countered, “then why do you still have a girlfriend. Surely, you would be better staying away from them?”

The other two nodded at this, even though I knew them both to be married from previous comments, but Andrei stuck to his guns. “That is true, my young man, but things are not so straightforward as that. I cannot live with women due to their duplicity and selfishness, but I cannot stay apart from them either. I get lonely easily – why do you think I am in here rather than my room? – and require company, and by that I do not just mean the conversation.” He chuckled and we all chuckled with him. “The girl in Bucharest is more than just a pretty face, let me tell you; she is a real tiger between the sheets, and we should raise a glass to that!”

As we clinked our glasses, I thought about him and his words. Was he right about women? In all honesty, I was not yet experienced enough to know, but he did seem a rather selfish and superficial little man. If a good fuck and nice smile could compensate adequately for real love and companionship, then maybe the problem lay not with the woman but elsewhere?

I glanced across to Ms. Kim, she glanced back, and I imagined.

That night there was a quiz. Arakeç, Bhēḍa, Andrei and I formed a team. It was better than most of the quizzes I’ve taken part in as the questions were neither too easy nor impossibly difficult. However, the competition was stiff and we came in second, for which we won a bottle of whisky which we promptly drank between us before turning in for the night. In the fug of my drunkenness, I was angry. Bhēḍa and Andrei had been alright, but that fool Arakeç had not taken the quiz seriously enough and was too drunk to think straight. We’d only lost by a single point and if he’d have been slightly more on the ball, we could have won it by a mile. The winners only got a bottle of whisky too, but that wasn’t the point, I hated coming second and it was all that drunkard’s fault. I saw his laughing face in my might and heard the triumphant cheer of the other team when the result was announced and seethed.

To calm myself down, I ran a bath and sat soaking and sweating in the steamy water.

I was woken in the middle of the night by a tapping on the window. Confused as to who might be out there – I was several storeys up after all – I ignored it at first, but the tapping continued, gnawing into my brain, so eventually I got up, my head thick and heavy with the aftermath of drunkenness and the onset of its consequences. I opened the window to look out and, to my astonishment, a raven flew in. it was jet-black, and one wig seemed broken as it flapped awkwardly. It entered the room and landed on top of the TV. Annoyed at this development, I went to shoo it out – after all, what would happen if it stayed there and did its droppings all over the room? As I approached, it fluttered and made its way back to the open window, thankfully passing out the same way whence it came. I closed the window and returned to bed. Thankfully, the bird did not return, and I soon drifted off again into an uneasy, alcohol-assisted slumber.

The film on the TV that morning was called ‘Sea of Blood’ and it was a war epic. I like war films, so I enjoyed that considerably more than the previous two, although it was far from being the best war film I’ve ever seen.

Set in the Fatherland War, it centred around a platoon of soldiers from all around the republic who were sent to guard a lonely island in the Sea of Təhlükə. The posting, which they all believed to be an easy one, far from the main theatres of action, suddenly became crucial when the enemy launched a surprise attack, intending to capture the isle and then use it as a forward base from which they could strike at the heart of the country. Knowing that, if the island fell, then the consequences could be enormous – this was all during those few months when the city of Kurçoo was under attack and the conflict could have swayed either way – and that it would be impossible to get any reinforcements from the mainland for twenty-four hours at least, they realised that they would have to fight to the last. The film was basically the story of that, how they bonded together and bravely stood their ground whilst wave after wave of enemy soldiers landed on the beach in front of them (they mowed down so many that, when the relief did come, the water flowed red with blood, hence the title). In the end, they managed to resist the onslaught, but at the cost of their lives, the final soldier clinging on to hand the national flag over to the captain of the parachutists who came in to relieve them, passing it to him with trembling hands, before breathing his last.

I knew what the story would be of course, we all do. The defence of Fədailik Island is seared into the national consciousness and has been made into numerous films, most of which were better than this one. Still, that didn’t stop my enjoyment of it. I mean, who doesn’t like a good war film with explosions and battle scenes? And, for someone like me with a lay interest in military history, what was nice was that, unlike so many films, they’d got the uniforms and military equipment spot on. What I enjoyed less however, was that the director had, for some reason, decided to focus on the fact that they were all from different backgrounds and different parts of the country and yet understood that they were one nation and that the Fatherland is worth giving one’s life for.

Now, I don’t know what I’d do in a war situation – I don’t think any of us do unless we’re in that situation – but I doubt I would go in for all that patriotic crap, particularly with people who don’t look like me nor even speak the same first language. No, I’d fight for my life because, well, it’s my life and I don’t want to die. I want to get out the other side and actually live and, if you’re stuck on a bloody island in the middle of the sea, then fighting is probably the only option you have. No, all that stuff about the nobility of dying for one’s country and how one’s friends and comrades is basically the same thing as the nation, really cheeses me off. I mean, the guy that bullied me in school, would I die for that bastard? You can bet your life I wouldn’t, yet according to ‘Sea of Blood’ I should. Sod that! Still, take the heavy messaging out of it and it was watchable. Certainly, an improvement on the vomit-inducing ‘Sisters’ that I’d sat through the day before.

I had lunch in the restaurant, a pleasant trout with vegetables. I was surprised to find Ms. Viktoriya Kim in there again. “You seem to be following me about?” I said.

She smiled. “Different shifts, different times.”

“Do you never get any time off?”

“Yes, tonight, although stuck out here in this lonely place, there’s not a lot to do.”

“Well, I’m on my own too, but the only enterntainment that I can offer is the bar and I doubt that you fancy hanging out in your place of work.”

She laughed. “Not really, but that isn’t the only entertainment here. Didn’t they tell you about the spa and sauna in the basement. I usually go there for an hour or two in my free time and then settle down in front of a film.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is. Say, if you are on your own, you can always join me; I’d appreciate the company. Just don’t mention it to anyone.” She jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen. “The bosses, they don’t like us fraternising with guests. Apparently, it’s unprofessional.”

I nodded sagely. “Mum’s the word.”

“I’ll be in the sauna at five when I knock off. And don’t worry about food, I’ll cook something.”

As she walked away, I watched the curves of her buttocks swing from side to side and felt a warm feeling inside.

With nothing else to do, after a short walk in the wilderness and a quick chat with Tatyana Tsoi on reception – she never seemed to be given different shifts – about where the sauna was and when one may access it, I returned to the TV for company.

Another film was starting. This one was called ‘Deserved Humiliation’ and it was all about a young man who was starting off his career with a large banking corporation somewhere in America. It told the story of his rise through the ranks, due partly to his hard work and passion, but also because he was not afraid to take difficult decisions and double-cross his colleagues or push out of the way those who stood in his path. That sounds harsh but, to be honest, I could empathise with the guy. His managers and workmates were all pretty bland nonentities, people who had got where they were due to family influence or just the fact that they had been with the company forever. They had no ideas, no inspiration, no enterprising spirit. All in all, I was rather enjoying seeing his ascent to the top of the pyramid when the ending came and knocked me for six. He was about to be elected bank CEO by the board when one of his former bosses, a real weaselly kind of arsehole named Jenkins who the hero had double-crossed years earlier, went to a family gathering. And there, he spoke with his uncle who, it turned out, was aboard member (how on earth had Jenkins got his position in the first place, eh?). Anyway, he got his revenge by spreading lies about the hero and the uncle got phoning all the other board members so, at the grand finale, the board meeting where he was due to be crowned king, instead they all turned on him, dressed him now publicly and then dismissed him, promoting a nonentity named Sandra Tyrone instead, arguing that having a black woman would fit in with their diversity policy better.

I turned the TV off in disgust. What were they thinking of? Deserved Humiliation?! What was deserved about that? As usual, a hard-working, intelligent man was destroyed by disgusting supposed equalities policies and bitter nonentities, whilst some floozy whose only qualification is her breasts gets the prize. So typical of society today and leftist indoctrination in the media!

It was only when I’d drunk a cup of tea and I thought of who I would be spending the evening with that I managed to calm down.

The spa was, as she said, in the basement of the hotel. I was surprised that Tatyana Tsoi on reception had not told me about it before; she had been so thorough in every other respect. It was rather more extensive than I’d anticipated, with a small swimming pool, a jacuzzi, wet and dry saunas, an icy plunge pool and a tepidly-heated “Turkish” room. What was so Turkish about this room, I cannot say, it was certainly a world away from the atmospheric hammam that I’d bathed in during my trip to Istanbul, but the whole place was nice, nonetheless.

I changed into my shorts and wandered on in. I was a little early and Ms. Kim was not there, so I went into the steam room and began to dissolve myself into the mist. I really enjoy steam rooms, the sense of being enveloped in a thick mist is somehow comforting, all the more so because I was the only one in there. I’d been sweating in there for five minutes or so when the door opened, and a figure emerged through the fog.

Wearing a one-piece swimsuit in plain black, Viktoriya looked both absolutely ravishing yet also friendly, human and approachable at the same time. “Glad to see you could make it,” she said.

“What else have I got to do?” I began, then realised how awful that sounded, like I was only agreeing to meet with her because there was no alternative. “By that I mean, much as I like saunas, I’d have preferred to have this chat in a nice restaurant or a pleasant park,” I added hastily.

She sighed and smiled. “Yes, how I long for a change in scene. A beach or a park, a nice meal or an evening at the theatre. But I knew that when I took on the job here I suppose.”

“Why did a smart girl like you choose to work in the Hotel Arman?”

“The money is good, double what you’d get for the same job elsewhere, plus with no distractions, I can save it all. Mainly though, I wanted to get away from home, family, everything, and this was my opportunity.”

I realised that I was beginning to like this girl more and more, both mentally and physically. However, I was now too hot, so I made my excuses and exited, jumping into the icy plunge pool to cool me down and close up my opened skin pores.

When I emerged from the waters new baptised, she was standing over me. “That’s brave, I would never dare to jump straight in!”

“It’s the best way. Climbing in slowly prolongs the agony. Just close your eyes and leap.”

She leapt and the shrieked, but her face came up smiling.

In the sauna we continued our conversation. “So, that is me, but what of you? Why are you staying at a place like the Arman?” Inside my brain froze. Do I tell her the truth and say that I hadn’t a clue, or should I lie and make an excuse? The former would make me sound like a crazy, but then with the second, I would be starting off what I hoped would become a proper relationship in a dishonest fashion. As always, I opted for the middle course.

“To be honest, I’m not quite sure. I needed a change and ended up here, though why I did, I cannot say. I do not even remember choosing and booking the place, but here I am, in this strange outpost of civilisation in the wilderness.”

“Surreal would be more exact,” she added. “Whoever thought to build a twelve-storey hotel in the heart of the steppe was either mad or a genius. At first, I thought the former, but since the Arman always seems to have a steady supply of guests, I wonder if it’s the latter.”

“And why do the other’s come here?”

“I don’t know; you’re the first guest that I’ve had a proper conversation with.”

Her room was a similar size to mine, but unlike mine, it had a small kitchen and laundry area attached to it and all the furnishings were far shabbier. A freshly-laundered uniform was drying on a stand next to the radiator and there were other clothes in a pile by the washing machine. She went into the kitchen area and started cooking a meal – guksu (and it smelt tantalising) – whilst I sat on the sofa and looked around. Unlike a hotel room, there were personal touches here: a photo of a Korean couple with a smiling boy and girl, her mum, dad and brother no doubt. I stood up, walked over and looked closely at them. Yes, the little girl was her a decade earlier. The mum and dad seemed nice too; the kind you could get along with. “They’re still in Ezhednevieto Province,” she said as she emerged from the kitchen holding two beers.

That evening we chatted, watched a soppy film entitled ‘The Red Flower’ and then kissed. But we did no more than that, although, as I left at midnight, we promised to meet again the following evening.

That night as I lay my head down in my bed in the Hotel Arman, I was as happy as a man could be and all was well with the world.

I drifted off into a dreamless sleep almost immediately.

I wake up in a room. It is not my hotel room, nor is it the chamber of Viktoriya Kim. Instead, it looks and smells like that of a medical establishment. Around my bed is a curtain. My hunch is proved right when it is drawn back, and a nurse appears.

“Ah, Mr. Kushdo, you are back with us, very good! Would you like a glass of water?”

“W-w-where am I?” I stutter.

“Feeling disorientated, are you? That is quite usual. You are in the clinic at the Dövlət Corporation. You are here for the medical examination following your application to come and work with us.”

As she speaks, the memories of my strange dream about being in a hotel in the middle of the steppe begin to recede and reality takes their place. That is right; I applied for a position with Dövlət and as part of the application process, they invited me here for a full medical scan. And part of that involved me being given an injection which obviously knocked me out.

“Does everyone faint away like that?”

She smiles and I find her pretty. “Not everyone, but a lot do. It just depends how your body reacts with the serum. Anyway, there are no ill effects so nothing to worry about.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Oh, a couple of hours perhaps, I’m not sure. It’s half two now.”

“Half two, then…” I realise that I cannot recall when I took the serum.

“Would you like that glass of water?”

“Yes… yes, I think I would.”

“Just a moment…”

She returns shortly bearing the glass. The ice-cold water slithers down my throat which is strangely parched, reinvigorating me and waking me up.

By the time I have finished it, my dream is completely forgotten.

Epilogue

Eight days later

“Can you get me the file on the next applicant please, Tanya?”

Tatyana Tsoi carried the folder over to her boss and laid it down before him. He smiled and patted her on the bottom. That evening he would be doing a lot more than that.

He opened up the file marked KUSHDO, DMITRI and began to read, aware that he had twenty minutes before the interview began. Most of it was uninspiring stuff; the universities these days seemed to churn out clones of the dullest sort of automaton going: the same opinions, desires, and attributes. Like the last three that morning, Kushdo was hard-working, intelligent to a degree, but prejudiced and his outward veneer of liberalism, merely a mask to hide a petit bourgeois conservatism. His loyalty levels were exceptionally low, as too his sense of duty to family, friends, and country, but his competitiveness and ambition were high which, should they dangle the carrot effectively, the digital analysis suggested, would be enough to keep him on track. It stated that he would reach Level 7 in the organisation but did not have the capacity to go beyond that.

Like most managers, Yevgeny Yu skipped most of the psychobabble to get to the juicy bit. Sexual preferences. Again, professed to be liberal outwardly, but scared of dominant women. Thinks himself a bit of a charmer; likes to flirt but is wary of getting in too deep. ‘Like every other bloody graduate,’ thought Yu. No homosexual tendencies but what was more interesting was that the computer analysis was suggesting that Kushdo be partnered with Viktoriya Kim from Section 22 where there is currently a vacancy. The file suggested an 89% compatibility which equated to a 78% chance of them starting a sexual relationship and 65% chance of marriage. High. Very high indeed. Yevgeny recalled interviewing the girl himself only a few months earlier. Passably pretty, the analysis had stressed Kim’s high loyalty and duty levels but little else was noteworthy. Perhaps the system thought that she could compensate for Kushdo’s deficit without being a threat to his ego. Interesting…

He sat back and thought of his own wife. Had the system matched them up too? Most probably it had although, at the time, working in Section 38, he never suspected such practices went on and had merely assumed that they’d met and fell in love. Still, it was a good match, if only for the fact that she never thought to ask questions about what went on in the office. Perhaps that had come up in his own analysis: has a high sexual appetite: recommend a position where infidelity is available. It would not be the first time the system threw such a statement up. He thought of Tanya Tsoi’s pert little bottom again and smiled, closing his eyes in anticipation.

A knock on the door brought him out of his reverie. He put away the folder and straightened his tie. “Enter!” he commanded.

“Dmitri Kushdo to see you Mr. Yu,” said Tanya, showing in a young man of nondescript appearance.

Yevgeny smiled his public smile and rose to shake the new starter’s hand. “Welcome to the Dövlət Corporation, Mr. Kushdo. I’ve been looking through your file and it really is quite something. I’m sure you’ll be a real asset to our organisation and will go far. We’ve decided to assign you to Section 22 where you’ll be working alongside Viktoriya Kim who is another of our new starters…”

Kushdo smiled in return, having forgotten his time in the Hotel Arman and even that the girl who’d showed him in had been working on the reception there. He was equally unaware that his whole future had also been mapped out for him.

Written Smallthorne; Stoke-on-Trent to Birmingham New Street return; Stoke-on-Trent to London Euston return, and London, UK, 14/09/21 to 25/11/21

Copyright © 2021, Matthew E. Pointon